Fiction Feature: THE LURKER

This little ditty from circa 2001 kinda slipped through the cracks, it got accepted and unless my memory chip has crashed I received a princely sum that allowed me to purchase fries with my burger, but I never heard from ye editor again.

THE LURKER
She's got style. She replies to just about every message, posting funny one-liners or longer, common sense opinions whenever there's any hint of disagreement or argument. When newbies arrive and ask questions she acts as generous hostess, welcoming them to the forum and showing them the ropes. She starts them talking and makes them feel special. They come back because they know she's there, waiting to entertain, make jokes, tell stories. She's a cross between Grandpa Walton and Joan Rivers. Homespun wisdom delivered with chainsaw wit.

After a while I begin searching for her userid every time I go online, knowing she'll be at the root of any interesting message thread. Whenever the conversational ball begins to lose its bounce, she hits it again. She has a growing number of online friends who seek her company, sycophants who kiss up to her and enjoy being publicly shredded when they—deliberately—step out of line. Men in their forties and fifties mostly, life's at home's gone stale so they come here instead. This is a poor substitute for chatting up hookers in bars, but it's less expensive, and it's legal.

She never gives her age but it's assumed she's mature. Her command of the language says so. She knows lots of things. She can name all six lead characters in Friends, but also knows Mr. Ed talked to Wilbur. She remembers seeing Neil Armstrong stepping onto the Moon, but she can't remember Kennedy's assassination. She refers to her husband as her "significant other" but never calls him by name. Is there a husband? She's online every day and night. If he exists, he has his own interests.

She only signs her messages with her first name, never her surname. Her userid doesn't hint what her surname might be. When someone happens to mention what state he's from, she says she's from there too, and asks him if he knows her home town? Further information: she moved away twenty years ago and still gets homesick sometimes.

A first name isn't much to go on, but public databases are made for this kind of thing. I know enough to hack past the dumb user interface and go direct to an SQL command line. First name, home town, born between 1957 and 1963. There are forty matches, sorted alphabetically. I touch the screen, my fingertips lingering upon each name. Which one is she, I wonder? And how can I tell where she lives now?

Some weeks later, she tells one of her buddies she'll be offline for a couple of days. She's going to visit her sister for the weekend. She names the town where her sister lives. Long journey? he asks. She jokingly gives an exact mileage. Oh, very clever—she must have geography map software with a measurement tool. I kick up mine and zoom on the town where her sister lives, click on it, then move the mouse so the mileage ruler stretches to the exact distance she quoted. I make sure the number remains constant as I move the mouse in a wide circle, causing the ruler to sweep like the second hand of a watch. I must be very careful. Can't afford to make any mistakes.

Bingo. There are two candidate-towns, both the exact same distance from the town where her sister lives, one lying due south, one to the northwest. Wait, didn't she say she was going upstate to visit her sister? I scroll back to the message. Yup, that's what she said. She's heading north, which means she currently lives in the town to the south.

I double-click on her town and study the street map, my lips silently forming the names. Getting a feel for where she lives. There are scanned photographs of the annual carnival and parade, a trap for tourists, and another of the town's famous football stadium. The public database tells me that ninety-six women with her first name live here. I study their names and addresses intently, knowing she's one of them. But which one? How can I find out?

Phone records. Oh, I'm not interested in knowing who paid what, or what their account or credit card numbers are, I'm just interested in the numbers they called. This information resides in a less secure database. I find out the area code of the town her sister stays in. I write an SQL script to query the phone record database, asking which numbers called her sister's area code within the last seven days. She must have been talking to her sister to arrange the visit, right?

Right, and there they are, three telephone numbers alongside three names and addresses.

Two of the three telephones only called her sister's area code once, and they were short calls, neither lasting more than five minutes. The third number called her sister's area code six times, the calls varying in duration from ten minutes to thirty-seven minutes.

Jackpot.

I drive to a payphone across town and call the third number. My hands are trembling, my heart's pounding. She picks up on the fourth ring. I know it's her because her voice is exactly how I'd imagined it would be, silky and smooth, filled with charm and warmth. She likes to like people, and likes them to like her in return.

I want to say something like, "I'm sorry, I must have dialed the wrong number, I hope I haven't inconvenienced you"—just so she'll talk to me, because I so desperately want to talk to her. But the words don't come and I slam the receiver down.

I call in sick to work. Stomach flu, I tell my boss, who doesn't care as long as he gets his monthly check from the employment opportunities people. He'll find someone else to push the mail cart around the office. I take a cab to the airport and buy a plane ticket with my savings. Four hours later and I'm looking down the street where the carnival parade marches every year. I drive my rental car past the football stadium and study the street map I bought at the airport. The town is well laid out and I have no problem finding her home.

She lives in a nice house. Manicured lawn, trees. There are two cars in the driveway, a Honda and a Beemer. Further down her street, there's a house for sale. I find a payphone and call the realtor to make an appointment to view the house. They quote me a time the following day. I tell them it's going to be a cash sale if I like the place, which I already do. Suddenly they have an opening at three that afternoon. I tell them I'll be waiting. I sit in my car outside the house that's for sale, watching her house. If anyone gets suspicious and asks what I'm doing there, I now have an excuse—I'm waiting for the realtor to arrive.

Twenty minutes later, someone comes out the front door. A man wearing a dark blue shirt. I can't see if he's handsome but I'd guess he is. He jogs to the Beemer, gets in, starts the engine. He waves to the woman at the door. She waves back as he drives away. She stands there for a moment, arms folded across her chest, looking up and down the street. As if she's got a sixth sense; as if she knows something's not quite right. I hold my breath, hoping she doesn't see me. Then again, what if she does? She doesn't know who I am, doesn't know what I look like. She turns and goes back inside, closing the door. I start breathing again.

It's time we met. Face to face, not online. I feel like a movie fan on a bus trip through Hollywood, with the guide pointing out who lives in which house. Only today it's different—today I get to meet the movie star. I tie my frizzy hair up and put on the sunglasses and baseball cap I bought at the airport. I get out, take a deep breath, and march right up to her door. Hesitation gets you noticed. Acting like you belong there makes you invisible. I read that in another forum, where an ex-cop was giving advice to people writing crime fiction.

I ring her doorbell and stand there trembling in my tennis shoes. The urge to get back into the rental car and drive away chokes me. Breathing becomes impossible. I feel as if I'm going to faint.

At first she's only a vague shadow at the end of the hall. Then she becomes a person, tall and good-looking, wearing a pink sweatshirt and hip-hugging denims that show off her figure. She's tied her ash blonde hair up with a black silk ribbon. She looks thirty instead of the fortysomething she must be. There's a dog somewhere in the house, barking. She tells it to be quiet. She opens the door and smiles at me, her teeth white and perfect. I wish I could afford her orthodontist.

"Yes?" she says.

I've gone over this moment in my head ten thousand times. I've practiced in front of the mirror, saying the words over and over again. But now we've met and it's different in ways I could never have imagined. She's everything I've ever wanted to be. I would gladly give my soul to become her, to swap lives, to possess her userid and password so I could go online and talk with her friends, reply to their messages, share in their jokes, welcome the newbies, answer their questions, be wonderful and amusing and witty just like she is. I want to tell her how much I want us to be friends forever. No, not just that. I want her to tell people I'm her friend—want her to tell them they should ask me all those questions because I know lots of stuff, if only everyone would give me a chance, if she'd only step back for just a second and let me reply instead of jumping in ahead of me all the time, as if it's my fault I type slowly.

"Can I help you?" she says. Not impatient, not impolite, just curious.

I take off my sunglasses so she can see who I am. She frowns, puzzled, as if she should know me but can't quite remember my name. I want to tell her but I'm more tongue-tied than I've ever been before in my life. It's beyond simple nerves, beyond any speech impediment. My tongue and lips and teeth refuse to work together. The words stick in my throat and refuse to move higher.

Something in my head snaps because I can't articulate all the things I came here to say—and her expression changes. It's as if she's seen something that frightens her. Something in my eyes, maybe. Anger at being unable to communicate using human language at this important moment in our relationship. I want to scream, but I can't.

Her self-assurance drains away, taking the color from her face with it. She takes a step back and tries to close the door but I shoulder it open, hurting my arm. The pain doesn't matter. She retreats as I move into the hallway. And still no words come. She turns and runs as if I'm some kind of danger to her. I limp after her, frightened she'll leave the house by the back door. I have to tell her how much I love her—how much I need her to love me in return and let me share her spotlight. I'll get down on my knees and beg her if necessary. Please, let me be what you are.

She throws the living door open and her stupid little dog runs headlong into her legs, it's so eager to get to me. It doesn't even know it's tripped her up—doesn't look back and see her head hitting a statuette standing just inside the room, a proud African warrior carrying a spear. Splash of crimson. The statuette becomes a casualty, its head and one arm missing.

The dog snarls as it sinks its teeth into my ankle, but plastic doesn't feel pain. I search the house, going from room to room until I find the study where she communicates with the world. I slam the door, trapping the dog outside in the hallway. I don't know if she uses the PC or the laptop so I reformat both, wiping everything. I rip the phone cables out of the wall sockets, cutting her off, denying her online access.

I open the door and the dog runs inside, yapping madly. Before it knows what's happening I'm past it and out, closing the door. The dog goes frantic, barking and clawing. The noise becomes faint as I go back to the living room. She still hasn't moved. I want to believe she'll be okay because I can't bring myself to touch her, any more than I could bring myself to speak to her. I tell myself her husband will be home soon, that he'll call her name and pat her face gently until she opens her eyes.

Outside, I put my sunglasses back on. By the time I reach my rental car my hands have stopped shaking. I drive back to the airport, feeling happy and light-headed. No one who knew me would believe I had the guts to do it, not my boss or my "work colleagues" who snigger behind my back when they think I can't hear. I dismiss them from my thoughts and think about tonight instead. I'd logon as usual, but things would be different. Tonight everyone would talk about the things I want to talk about, and laugh at my jokes, just like it was before she rose above the horizon like the bright morning sun, casting her golden light over my forum and taking my friends away.

I still send her e-mails, asking when she's coming back, but she never replies.

The End

Fiction Feature: TERRA INCOGNITA

Terra Incognita appeared in the AMAZING HEROES II Sci-Fi/Fantasy anthology published by G.W. Thomas. This is technically the first time it's appeared in full on t'interwebs, hence Fiction Feature.



It had rained for six days and nights, turning the road into mud and soaking the four men as they waited among the trees opposite the roadside inn.

Their flamboyant yellow and scarlet radiation cloaks suggested they might be New Yakuza but Lei Ping was not fooled—their weapons were the best and they moved like tigers, alert and dangerous. She'd hoped the war would keep its distance. Their presence dashed her hopes and boded nothing but blood and pain for the future.

Upon their arrival her stepfather had taken her mother and her half-brothers and half-sisters to the next village to stay with relatives. Only Lei Ping and the equally worthless Second Assistant Cook remained, to cater to their visitors' needs. She saw the wisdom in this. These men would think nothing of putting everyone here to the sword if they were displeased with the food or the rice wine or the service, or simply because the mood took them.

Only one at a time would come inside to eat and then sleep for a few hours in one of the rooms at the back of the inn. The other three would stand like iron statues in the rain, always looking south. After a while Lei Ping began to wonder whether they were human or whether they were automatons from the terrible past before the gods lit up the skies with thunderbolts and crimson blossoms scarred the world forever.

On the morning of the seventh day the rain stopped. The sudden silence seemed unnatural. The four dangerous men went about their business as before, with three outside watching the road and the fourth man inside, resting. Second Assistant Cook wrung his hands and prayed the men would soon begone. Perhaps he sensed, as Lei Ping did, their growing frustration. If whoever or whatever they were waiting for did not come soon. . . .

The distant growl of a monocycle engine stirred them into activity. The fourth man, who was at breakfast, snatched up his sword and went to the window overlooking the road. He cautiously peered outside. The other three men had hidden themselves among the trees, though Lei Ping could still see them. She hardly dared breathe lest they notice her.

A lone rider appeared on the crest of the hill. Three curious faces looked up at the window. The fourth man stared at the rider for long moments—then he gave a hand signal. The other three relaxed. The rider was not the person, or persons, they were waiting for. The fourth man returned to his table and resumed eating his breakfast. Lei Ping remained by the kitchen door so she could watch their guest and respond to his wishes, as was her duty—but also so she could see what was happening outside.

The monocycle rider came down off the hill and pulled up in front of the inn. Lei Ping couldn't see his face—he wore protective mask and goggles—but then he looked up and she sensed his gaze upon her. Lei Ping shuddered. It was as if a power had swept over her, an elemental force of Nature.

He killed his engine and climbed down into the mud. His monocycle stood upright, balanced by its gyroscopes. He walked to the stairs and paused there, looking back over his shoulder. The three men had emerged from the trees and were looking south again, making it obvious that they had no interest in him. The stranger climbed the steps, opened the door and came inside. He shrugged off his anti-radiation coat and hung it on one of the wooden pegs. Then he took off his goggles, his mask and his gauntlets and put them into the coat's deep pockets. His black hair was tied at the base of his neck and hung halfway down his back, thick and shiny, like poured oil. He stepped onto the ultrasonic mat which removed mud from his boots. When he turned to face the room Lei Ping only just managed to smother her gasp before it escaped her lips. A livid radiation burn covered the entire left side of his once-handsome face. He'd been touched by the crimson blossom! Her heart went out to him. Karma to have such beauty destroyed.

He wore a plain brown kimono without any embroidered Clan or Corporation insignia. His cat eyes swept the interior of the inn, missing nothing. His gaze rested upon the warrior sitting at the breakfast table. The warrior's head slowly came up and his dark, dead eyes studied the new arrival incuriously. Then he returned to eating his meal. Evidently the stranger had been assessed and judged inconsequential.

Her stepfather should have welcomed the stranger but he had fled, so this duty also fell to Lei Ping. She stepped forward and bowed her respect, trying not to look at his face. He smiled at her, but she knew that he knew. Then his stomach rumbled noisily, and they both laughed.

"The smells from your kitchen please me," he said. "What would you recommend?"

"The chicken noodle soup and a bowl of savory dumplings," Lei Ping replied at once. "The best in the district if I may say so myself. Please sit down. I'll bring you hot rice wine first. That'll dispel the morning chill, hmm?"

He nodded his approval. "A most excellent idea."

He sat down by the other window, facing the door. He carefully placed his sword, sheathed in its lacquered scabbard, upon the matted floor beside him. Lei Ping hurried to the kitchen and gave the food order to Second Assistant Cook. She flash-heated the rice wine herself and brought it to the tall stranger's table. She kept her gaze carefully averted from his ruined face as she poured wine into his cup. The tall man sipped the wine and nodded his approval again. Lei Ping breathed a sigh of relief. Here was someone she could understand and deal with, a traveler who wished only to rest for a while and eat some noodles before he continued on his journey. Not like the four dangerous men who were like nervous cats, waiting to pounce and kill.

The stranger sat quietly while his meal was prepared. He stared out the window, idly watching the three men standing by the roadside. Lei Ping went to the kitchen. Second Assistant Cook had performed adequately. She carried the tray with its two steaming bowls, set them down on the stranger's table and placed spoon and chopsticks upon a silk napkin. She added a small vase of trumpet-shaped purple flowers to the table. The stranger's gaze met hers and he smiled again.

Abruptly the warrior who'd been eating breakfast rose and hurried outside to join his comrades. Lei Ping watched as all four men moved to take up positions among the trees and bushes on the far side of the road. They squatted down, concealing themselves expertly. She wondered what was about to happen, and tasted her own fear.

Several monocycles appeared on the crest of the road. Lei Ping counted eleven machines and riders. Their machines were painted green and brown flecked with black—military camouflage pattern. The riders wore hooded anti-radiation coats. Even at this distance she could see from the way they slouched in their saddles that they were tired. They had journeyed a considerable distance, and because of this their captain made the inexcusable mistake of not sending scouts ahead to check the harmless roadside inn and its surroundings. Lei Ping held her breath, and waited. What else could she do?

The thunderous chorus of their engines shook the air as the riders came down the road and drew up outside the inn. As they did so the four warriors leapt from hiding, ran across the road and attacked with a berserk fury that startled Lei Ping. They came upon their unsuspecting enemies from behind, their blades slashing at exposed backs. Four riders instantly fell from their monocycles, dead. In the blink of an eye another four riders were hacked from their saddles. The handsome young captain, identified by the red scarf he wore about his upper arm, seemed only dimly aware of what was happening. He turned to face the attackers but his sword was still in its scabbard when one of the warriors bore down upon him. His warning scream died in his throat and his corpse toppled into the mud.

Only two of the eleven riders still lived. The first gunned his monocycle into a slewing half-circle to cut the warriors off from the last rider. Lei Ping observed that the last rider was smaller than the rest, with a boy's figure beneath his radiation coat. The defending rider drew his sword and shouted a challenge, inviting a duel, but two of the ruthless warriors leapt to either side of him and struck together, a double attack that skewered the rider from both sides. He slumped across the handlebars and his weight pitched his monocycle over onto its side, the engine dying along with its owner.

The four warriors quickly surrounded the last rider and so prevented him from fleeing. They carefully closed the trap, cautious and wary, ready for anything. The boy looked around desperately seeking an avenue of escape, but there was none.

The leader of the four—he who had been eating breakfast when the riders appeared—lowered his sword and took a pace forward. To Lei Ping's surprise he bowed to the last rider. And then he held out his hand.

"The message spool, if you please," he said, and as she heard these words Lei Ping realized that the four warriors must have received intelligence informing them that these riders would be coming north by this road, bringing a message with them. A message from whom? A message to whom? Lei Ping had no way of knowing, nor did she wish to know. Such knowledge might well bring about her own death, assuming it was not already written in stone.

The young rider hesitated, his face hidden within the shadows of his hood. The warrior behind him snatched the rider's hood away. Lei Ping gasped as long black hair spilled out, framing a face that was suddenly very feminine and very afraid.

Afterwards, when she thought back to this moment, Lei Ping would swear that the stranger moved with such speed that the chopsticks he had been holding floated in mid air for long seconds, uncertain as to whether they should obey gravity's pull. The stranger became a blur as he leapt through the open window. His sword left its scabbard in a smooth arc that cut entirely through the body of the warrior who had pulled the rider's hood away, before the stranger's boots had even touched the ground.

The warrior gurgled and fell, his body splashing in the mud. All motion then ceased as the three remaining warriors regarded the stranger who stood in their midst. The woman, for such she was, seemed no less afraid. She did not recognize the stranger, as was obvious from her surprised expression, and therefore she had no way of knowing whether one swordsman was any better than another. Lei Ping could have told her.

The leader of the warriors said, "This is private business. If you wish to live, turn and begone."

On this last word another warrior lunged, his blade humming as it sought the tall stranger's head. Instead it found only air. The stranger spun, slashed, and slashed again. The warrior stared at his handless wrists, and then a line of red slowly appeared across his neck and he realized he was dead. He fell to his knees and pitched forward into the mud which turned dark beneath him.

The two remaining warriors attacked together, their speed deadly, but the stranger held them both, refusing to retreat. Yet it was obvious to Lei Ping that their combined skills might prove a match for him, therefore the outcome of the battle was by no means certain. She snatched up the flower vase and threw it. The vessel tumbled through the air, leaving a trail of trumpet-shaped purple flowers, and smashed upon the head of the warrior nearest her. The man cried out and stumbled. An instant later he too was dead, a victim of the stranger's lightning reflexes.

The leader backed away from the stranger. When he spoke, his voice betrayed his rage at having three of his men killed.

"Who are you? Why do you interfere in our business?"

The tall stranger's sword did not waver, nor did he take his eyes from the leader for an instant, even to look at the woman. She was still uncertain as to whether she could trust the stranger, but he had killed three of the men who had murdered her escort and so she stared at him, anxious to hear his reply.

"My name is unimportant. And I have no interest in your business. Only in the lady."

"You killed my men because of her?"

The stranger smiled. "But of course. She's pretty, don't you think? I never could resist a pretty face. She's too good for you and your vermin. She needs a real man, mmm?"

A muscle beneath the leader's eye twitched. Even as Lei Ping began to understand that the stranger had said these things to anger him, the leader screamed and stamped forward, raining blow after blow upon the stranger's sword as if determined to smash through his enemy's defense by brute strength alone, his desire for bloody vengeance now his only consideration.

The stranger held the attack. His rage exhausted, the leader stepped back and re-assessed his adversary. The two men circled each other, each a master swordsman, neither prepared to give or receive quarter. They came together and the clash of steel on tempered steel all but deafened Lei Ping, who put her hands over her ears and was terrified by the thought that the leader might triumph—in which event she and Second Assistant Cook would perish along with the rest. The leader would leave no witnesses to what had happened here, she knew that now.

"Remain in the kitchen!" she warned Second Assistant Cook who was peering around the door, frightened by the sounds of fighting. He needed no second telling and disappeared at once—just like her stepfather, who'd thought nothing of leaving Lei Ping to whatever fate the four warriors wished to inflict upon her.

At that moment the leader lunged, the point of his sword seeking the tall stranger's heart. Something happened then, something which Lei Ping could not quite follow or understand. A flash of steel—and then the stranger and the leader stood immobile in the mud, each perfectly relaxed and unmoving. In the eternity that stretched out of this single instant in time Lei Ping realized that one or other of the men below had embraced death. She swallowed hard and silently prayed it was the right one.

At last the leader moved. He looked down at the dark stain that spread across his chest, hardly able, it seemed, to comprehend what had transpired. He looked up at the stranger, wishing him to explain this curious phenomenon. Instead the stranger took a step forward and decapitated the leader cleanly. The leader's body splashed into the mud, as did his head, a moment later.

The stranger examined the other bodies thoroughly, making sure the warriors were all dead, not that there was any doubt in Lei Ping's mind. The stranger and the woman were the only two people still alive down there, that much was obvious.

The stranger wiped his bloodied sword on the dead leader's tunic before returning it to its scabbard. Only then did he pay any attention to the woman. She'd picked up a fallen sword and stood ready to defend herself. But once again her expression became one of surprise as the stranger, without a word, turned and climbed the stairs. He came back inside, stepped onto the ultrasonic mat again to clean his boots, then returned to his table and sat down, placing his sword beside him on the floor. As if nothing had happened, he picked up his chopsticks and resumed eating his savory dumplings.

Lei Ping went to the kitchen and heated more rice wine. She brought it to the stranger's table and refreshed his cup. She tried not to stare, but was not entirely successful; the stranger looked up at her. Lei Ping bowed her thanks. The stranger nodded, acknowledging her unspoken gratitude and understanding her fears. Lei Ping went and stood by the window, leaving him to enjoy his meal in peace. She closed her eyes and reveled in the soft touch of the morning breeze on her face. From certain death to continued life; a short but significant journey made possible by a stranger's sword. Even with its ever-present burned metal taint, the air smelled wonderful.

Footsteps sounded upon the stairs. The door flew open and the woman entered. Her gaze swept the room, lingered on Lei Ping for a moment, and then locked upon the stranger. She came forward to stand before his table, dripping mud on the floor. He looked at the mud, tutted his disapproval, then raised his head to look at her.

Until that moment Lei Ping had not realized how beautiful the woman was. Even in her mud-spattered anti-radiation coat, with her hair windblown and unkempt, she brightened the interior of the inn with her perfection like some goddess descended from the heavens.

"Who are you?" the woman demanded of the stranger.

"My name is unimportant," he said—the answer he'd given when the leader had asked the same question, Lei Ping remembered.

"You have saved my life and vanquished my enemies. I would know why."

"Must there be a reason?" he asked.

"Yes!" The single word exploded from her perfect lips.

He shrugged again, as if the subject was inconsequential. Then he said, "My mission and theirs is the same."

Color drained from her face but he held up a hand, palm outward, as if to reassure her that he meant her no harm. "The message spool you carry must not reach my master," he said.

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Meaning?"

"I should have thought it obvious, Princess. Your father wishes you to deliver an offer of alliance to my master. But such an alliance would bring us into a war which we do not wish to be involved in. I was ordered to spare my master the embarrassment of having to refuse your father's offer." He nodded toward the window. "These men were sent to stop you because their master wished to make his own offer of alliance first."

"And what will your master say when that offer arrives?"

"It will never arrive. The messenger will be intercepted, just as you were intercepted. He will be turned back, assuming he listens to reason—or if not, he will simply vanish from the face of the earth. Easy enough to blame his disappearance on one of your father's patrols, which have no respect for official borders any more."

His tone carried a warning that the woman could not have failed to notice. She gestured angrily at the dead warriors lying in the mud. "Why did you stop them? If you had allowed them to kill me, my message would not have reached your master."

He thought about it for a moment, sipping his rice wine and staring out across the blackened fields beyond the shriveled, bare trees. Lei Ping also waited to hear his answer.

"It was a spur of the moment thing," he said at last.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I stopped them," he said, "because I felt like it."

"And for no other reason?" She looked disappointed.

"For no other reason."

At last, Lei Ping understood. The woman wished to know if the stranger intended to take her as a spoil of war. He'd saved her life. None could dispute his right even though she possessed Royal blood.

"You have a long ride ahead of you, and there are bandits on the road," he said. "Speed will be of the essence. Take my bike. The tank is nearly full and there's food and water in the storage pod. I'll take one of yours. I don't have as far to travel." He threw her the key. She snatched it out of the air and turned it in her hand, inspecting it. Lei Ping sensed she wanted to ask more, but somehow realized that there would be little point; the stranger had said all he'd wanted to say. She turned and went to the door, opened it and paused on the landing, looking down at the carnage. The bodies of her dead escort and the warriors who had been sent to intercept her lay sprawled in the mud in various positions of obscene death. The predominant color was crimson, like the fiery blossoms that had transformed the world into a quiltwork of pain and suffering.

The woman cast a final backward glance at the seated swordsman, then went down the steps. She mounted his monocycle and rode back the way she'd come, her long black hair streaming behind her.

The stranger finished his meal and dabbed his lips with a napkin. He rose from the table, fished in a pocket for a coin and placed this beside his empty cup. Lei Ping stared at the gleaming hexagonal coin. At the current exchange rates it represented enormous wealth; enough to purchase this inn outright from her stepfather.

"You were right," he told her. "Your savory dumplings are the best in the district."

He took his anti-radiation coat off the hook and shrugged it on, then pulled on his goggles and gloves. Lei Ping watched as he went outside and down the steps. He inspected the camouflage pattern monocycles and selected one, mounted it, started the engine and drove off in the opposite direction from the beautiful princess—north, toward the distant, half-melted city-dome where he would report the outcome of his mission to his master, the wise mandarin-daimyo who refused to involve himself or his people in the senseless war that sought to destroy the feuding southern nations.

Lei Ping sighed. Had she expected the swordsman to sweep her up and place her on the back of his monocycle and take her with him? Just because they had both been kissed by the burning heat of the crimson blossom didn't mean that a man such as he would ever consider a lowly serving maid encountered by chance in a roadside inn.

She bowed once more to the departing rider, and then she told the Second Assistant Cook to ride to the next village to fetch the village headman, who would give her a good price for the ownerless machines. After all, she'd need money to pay for the extension she planned to build onto the restaurant she would purchase from her stepfather, and the extra staff she intended to take on.

The End


Original anthology cover

Fiction Feature: THE BARROW

The Barrow appeared in the KINGS OF THE NIGHT fantasy anthology helmed by prolific small press epublisher G.W. Thomas. It was the 2nd story in a planned trilogy of shorts that chronicled the adventures of the Caledon tribes and their sworn enemies, the Norman-like Sudlander race, and the Viking-like Nordlanders. Yeah, I don't know what the hell I was thinking either. Anyways, Dragonskin (see Nostalgia entry below) kicked the trilogy off, this story came next, and the 3rd is Winter's Evil which somehow evolved into a novelette with more fantasy/horror content than the previous two. Enjoy.



The storm came suddenly out of the southeast, bringing with it darkness and monstrous waves that crashed over the galley and threatened to send her to the sea bottom. The oarsmen pulled for all they were worth, but could make little headway against the storm's savage, unrelenting fury. Ranald of Skyree knew that their only chance of survival rested in reaching the safety of the sheltered harbor that lay somewhere ahead, obscured by the blinding rain.

Ranald held his course and prayed the winds wouldn't drive them onto the rocks. He'd lashed himself to the tiller to stop himself from being washed overboard. He wiped stinging salt water from his eyes and peered at the tall figure who stood at the bows, acting as lookout, risking his life by thus exposing himself to the elements. But Ranald expected no less of Dughal, High King of the Caledon tribes. Dughal would not cower from the storm and let another man take his place. It was not his way.

Dughal signaled frantically. Ranald saw why: up ahead, two points off their port bow, a light shone. The twin signal fires, marking the entrance to the safe harbor they so desperately sought. Dughal bared his teeth in a triumphant grin, and Ranald grinned back at him. They had endured the worst of the storm and survived. Ranald shook off his relief and took the galley in toward the signal fires, the constantly burning beacons that lit their way to safety.

The great blow turned the galley over onto its side, throwing screaming men into the boiling sea. Ranald lost his footing and his head struck the tiller. He blacked out for a moment. When he opened his eyes again and looked to the bows, King Dughal was gone. Ranald couldn't understand what had happened. He could still see the signal fires, dead ahead. They couldn't have struck the rocks. Couldn't have.

The waves smashed into the galley with pitiless cruelty. The ship disintegrated, its timbers unable to withstand the pounding. Ranald tried to untie himself so he could look for Dughal but the soaked, knotted ropes binding him to the tiller would not unravel, and Ranald's scabbard was empty. The broken stern slid down into the foaming sea, which parted briefly to reveal jagged black rocks. The steersman took his confusion with him to his watery grave.

§

A persistent banging at the door dragged Dulnain from a deep sleep and sent his hand questing for his shortsword. He rose from his cot, draped his blanket about his shoulders and staggered to the door. The floorboards were freezing cold beneath his bare feet.

"Who's there?" he demanded.

Incoherent words reached him. He recognized Grigor's voice, opened the door and peered outside. The balding innkeeper stood there with his wife and his two daughters. Dulnain had noticed the girls when he'd arrived. The younger, red-haired girl was pretty but too slim, while the older, dark-haired one had wider hips but rivaled the cows in Grigor's byre for beauty. Small wonder Grigor hadn't been able to marry her off yet.

"What is it, man?" Dulnain growled. "It's the middle of the night."

"Nordlanders," Grigor said. "Padraig says they're coming this way." Padraig was Grigor's stable hand. The dark-haired girl glanced nervously at the stairs, as if she expected the Nordlanders to appear there at any moment. They were all afraid, and small wonder. Nordlanders slew men and womenfolk alike to appease their blood god, Fel. What was it the priests of Daras had written before they were slaughtered in their sanctuary on Skyree? Save us, Oh Daras, from the fury of the Nord. But their prayers hadn't worked; Daras the Charitable had looked the other way, as he usually did. The Nordlanders had slaughtered the priests in the worst ways imaginable to appease their blood god, Fel.

Dulnain had come here to sell his father's cattle at tomorrow's market. The coin would purchase supplies to help take his family through the harsh mountain winter. He wasn't here to fight Nordlanders or defend Grigor's womenfolk.

"You must help us," the wife said, perhaps seeing his hesitation. "You are a Caledon warrior. You have a sword."

Dulnain glanced down at the iron shortsword his father had given him, remembering his advice: Never involve yourself in someone else's battles. Always be your own man. He didn't want them to think him a coward, but he'd little choice in the matter. "This is none of my business," he said gruffly. He noted the wife's surprise, and the dark-haired daughter's disappointment.

But Grigor gave Dulnain a reason for involvement: "They'll steal your animals as well as ours. You think they care who owns which beast?"

Dulnain imagined the consequences of coming home without coin or supplies. "Give me a moment," he said, trying desperately to think. He pushed the door shut, shrugged off the blanket and dressed quickly, pulling on his trews and his shirt, and the sheepskin jerkin his mother had given him. Next, he sat on the edge of the cot and pulled on his woolen socks and leather boots. Feeling considerably warmer, he picked up his sword again and strode to the door.

"Have you a weapon?" he said to Grigor as he stepped out onto the landing.

"He was a bowman once," the wife said. "He fought with King Dughal's army at Blood Moor, against the Nordlanders. But a Nordlander ax split his shoulder. He cannot pull the string any more."

Dulnain recalled seeing the great longbow hanging above the stone fireplace in the common room downstairs, but he was no more an archer than he was a swordsman, so the bow was useless to him.

"How many Nordlanders are there?" he said.

"Padraig counted six," Grigor said. "But there must surely be more. Their dragon ships can hold ten times that number."

Sixty Nordlanders! The odds were against Dulnain, but he'd no choice. Tonight he must be a warrior instead of a farmer, if he wanted to keep his father's cattle. "Stay here," he said, heading for the stairs.

"What will you do?" said the wife.

Dulnain frowned. Did she expect him to have a plan of battle? "I will see what is to be seen," he said, hoping that was a good enough answer.

He descended to the inn's darkened common room. The smell of stale pipeweed smoke still hung in the air, but the tables had been cleaned and the floor brushed. Grigor's womenfolk kept a tidy house. Dulnain crept to a window and peered outside. Nothing was moving out there. He wondered whether the dozy stable hand might have been dreaming. Nordlanders, indeed!

A dark, tall figure stepped out of the house opposite the inn, clad in fur and leather and carrying a longsword that gleamed in the pale moonlight. He looked left and right as he crossed the ground between the house and the inn. Behind him, orange fire took hold inside the house, spreading up the walls to the thatched roof.

Dulnain experienced a pang of fear for whoever dwelled in the house—then realized they were probably dead already. He drew back the locking bar so the Nordlander would have no trouble opening the door, and stepped away from the door.

"What are you doing? Are you mad?"

Dulnain spun, surprised. The older daughter had followed him. He wanted to shout at her to go back upstairs, but the Nordlander would hear him. He put a finger to his lips instead, warning her to silence, and turned back to face the door.

The Nordlander kicked the door open and Dulnain threw himself at the huge shadow, sinking the iron blade deep into the warrior's guts. The Nordlander glared at him, eyes wide, lips drawn back to expose uneven teeth. Then his longsword slipped from his hand and he collapsed, dead. Dulnain stumbled back, hardly able to believe he'd killed the warrior so easily.

"Watch out!" the girl shouted.

A second Nordlander leapt over the body of his comrade and struck at Dulnain, sending his shortsword spinning from his numbed hand. Caught off-balance, Dulnain sprawled on his back on the floor, gasping for breath. The grinning Nordlander stood over him, his longsword raised. Dulnain tensed himself to receive the fatal blow, but it didn't come. Instead the Nordlander slowly sank to his knees, then pitched forward onto his face. Grigor's daughter stood over him, holding the splintered remains of the three-legged stool she'd broken over his head.

Dulnain shakily pushed himself up and recovered his shortsword, relieved to still be alive. "What's your name, girl?"

"And who are you to ask me that?" she said.

He clamped his mouth shut. He'd only asked her name, he hadn't asked her to share his cot. These coastal people were touchy, he decided. He went to the door. There were no other Nordlanders to be seen. The house opposite burned fiercely, the wind carrying showers of burning sparks into the night.

A moaning sound made Dulnain glance back over his shoulder. The second Nordlander was still alive, trying to get up. Grigor's daughter picked up his fallen longsword. She put her weight upon the weapon, pushing the point down into the warrior's back. The Nordlander shuddered, and then lay still. Bile rose in Dulnain's throat. He saw the sense in what she'd done, but this was no way for a warrior to die. Heimdal would deny the man entry to Valhalla, nothing was more certain.

The girl pointed behind Dulnain, her eyes wide. Dulnain turned around, expecting to come under attack from another wild foeman. But it was far worse than that. A mist was rising from the body of the warrior he'd slain. The air in the common room turned chill. The mist swirled, then became a ghostly outline of the dead warrior. The specter's terrible gaze swept the common room and came to rest upon Dulnain. It nodded, acknowledging Dulnain as the victor in their combat. Then it turned its back on him and walked through the wall.

Several moments passed before Dulnain dared breath again.

"Did you see that?" he said, finding it difficult to believe his own senses.

"Aye, I saw it," she replied, her astonishment mirroring his own. Then she gasped as the air in the room turned chill again. A second specter rose from the body of the Nordlander she'd dispatched. The ghost looked down at the body it had occupied and gave a terrible wail of despair.

"Give him his sword," Dulnain whispered. "Without it, he cannot enter Valhalla." His father had impressed upon Dulnain the awe-inspiring legends of Valhalla and Hel. It was not the religion of the Caledon Druids, but even the Druids did not totally deny Nordlander beliefs.

The girl shook her head. "I gladly deny him his place in Heaven. A curse on him and all his kind." She spat on the Nordlander's body.

For a moment Dulnain thought the ghost might snatch its sword from her, but this was not to be. Instead the wraith stepped past her and walked through the solid fireplace wall as if through an open door.

Dulnain's hands shook. His eyes had never beheld such terrible sights before.

"Where are they going?" Grigor's daughter asked.

"To Valhalla, or to Hel, whichever is fitting," he said. Dulnain felt sorry for the warrior she'd killed. Then again, the Nordlander would probably have taken pleasure in slaughtering everyone here, and deserved no one's pity.

"What if other Nordlanders see the ghosts?" she said. "They'll come looking for us, knowing we slew them."

Dulnain cursed softly. She was right. The others would see the ghosts and seek out whoever had done the deed. There could be no more hiding in the dark. He stepped outside. The ghosts were walking toward the flat hill that lay west of the village. Clearly they had a purpose, but Dulnain could not fathom it. Nor did he particularly wish to; he simply wanted them gone.

The burning house turned day into night. Three Nordlanders stood not twenty paces away, their backs to Dulnain, watching the ghosts. Dulnain picked up the first slain Nordlander's longsword, transferring his shortsword to his left hand. He hefted the longsword, testing its weight and balance. It was much lighter than a Caledon broadsword; Dulnain was sure he could use it one-handed. Thus armed, he came silently upon the three men, hoping to kill or wound at least one of them before the others turned on him. If he had to die this night then he'd at least take some of his enemies with him, and hopefully save the cattle. His father would send someone to look for him—and the cattle—if Dulnain did not return. Hopefully his family would learn of Dulnain's actions, and understand why he'd chosen this path.

"Follow them, Valtos," the largest of the Nordlanders said, pointing after the ghosts. "See where they are going."

The warrior he'd named shook his head. "Go after them yourself, Tolsta," he growled. "Show us all how brave you are."

"Damn you, Valtos, if you were not my brother—"

Their speech shocked Dulnain. He'd expected to hear strange foreign accents, but these men might well have originated from Caledon lands, so familiar was their tongue to his ears. And they carried longswords, yet it was a known fact that Nordlanders fought with the terrible double-headed broadax, and regarded swords as lesser weapons fit only for boys and women. King Dughal had showed them the error of their thinking at the Blood Moor, when Caledon sword had triumphed over Nordlander ax.

The warrior called Valtos either heard or sensed Dulnain's approach for he spun suddenly, lifting his sword to block the overhead stroke that Dulnain aimed at his skull. Iron shrieked upon iron and Valtos cried out in alarm. But Dulnain, instead of trying to renew his attack with the longsword, stabbed him through the heart with his shortsword instead. Valtos fell dead without another sound uttered.

The other two warriors leapt back and faced Dulnain. The larger one—Tolsta—grinned ferociously, his teeth shining in the firelight. Scarred covered his face, as if a thousand angry birds had scratched him. No, not birds—a woman's fingernails. One of the villagers had raked Tolsta's face as he'd ravaged her.

"And who might you be, lad? You're not one of these soft village cowards, by the look of you. From the mountains, are you?"

"Come and find out," Dulnain invited, his words belying his fear.

Tolsta laughed. "What think you, Badral?" he said to his comrade. "Are we dealing with a wolf, or is he just a sheep howling at the Moon?" He beckoned to Dulnain. "Come on, lad. Let's see what you're made of."

Dulnain attacked Badral instead, shifting rapidly so Badral stood between him and the larger, more dangerous Tolsta. The Nordlander warrior, if such he was, snarled and swung at him but Dulnain crossed his swords above his head, catching Badral's blade between his two. He slipped his shortsword free and brought the blade down upon the astonished warrior's neck. Badral dropped to his knees, trying to staunch the leak, but the wound was mortal and he pitched forward, his lifeblood emptying into the earth.

Dulnain, surprised again by how easy it was to kill, now faced Tolsta.

"Very good, lad," Tolsta said. He'd made no move to help Badral but had instead hung back and observed Dulnain, measuring him so that he might defeat him all the more easily. "But you're up against old Tolsta now. I know all the tricks. Aye, and I've made up a few of my own, as you'll find out."

Tolsta took a step toward Dulnain—and leapt back in fright as Valtos's spirit rose from the slain warrior's corpse. A heartbeat later, Badral's did likewise. The ghost warriors stared at Dulnain, who wanted to throw down his swords and run away, but did not. The ghosts turned away from him and, ignoring Tolsta completely, walked toward the low hill.

"What wizardry have you set upon them?" Tolsta demanded of Dulnain. "How is it that we can see the spirits of the fallen?"

Dulnain couldn't answer his questions. "I do not know, nor do I care. It is enough for me that they are dead."

"Ah, lad, what a cruel thing—"

Tolsta leapt in mid-sentence, twisting in the air, his sword arcing toward Dulnain's neck, but Dulnain dived to one side, his longsword opening a deep cut in Tolsta's left thigh. The larger man bellowed in pain and rage as Dulnain rolled to his feet, amazed he'd got the better of Tolsta so easily. He was no swordsman but he was young and fast, reared in the Caledon Mountains and hardened by the land from an early age. His reflexes were a match for Tolsta's and the longsword fitted his hand comfortably, as if it were made for him.

Tolsta snarled and hacked at him, missed, limped after him and cut again. Any of these stupendous blows would have slain Dulnain had they landed, but he used his speed and agility to avoid them, all the while gaining the measure of his enemy.

He saw the murderous light in Tolsta's eyes fade, to be replaced by something else. The truth of it struck Dulnain like cold sleet on an icy winter's morn. It was fear! Tolsta had judged Dulnain to be easy prey, young and inexperienced, a callow youth who should have fallen to his first stroke. Now Tolsta was slowing, while Dulnain remained fresh and strong.

"Ransay, Tirgmor, to me!" Tolsta bellowed at the top of his voice. "Giuran, Eishkar, to me!"

Dulnain's heart sank as more warriors came running in response to Tolsta's call. Tolsta retreated every time Dulnain pressed him, keeping him at sword's length while he waited for help to arrive. "You've had your chance, lad," he said. "Now I'll have mine. You'll pay for what you've done, mark my words."

Four warriors joined Tolsta, two of them carrying burning torches, all four armed and ready for a fight.

Dulnain spat at Tolsta's feet. "You are a coward who lets other men fight his battles," he said.

"Willingly," Tolsta said. "I'll even let them die for me." His smile broadened. "As long as you die, too."

"He'll not die alone," a familiar voice called, surprising Dulnain. It was Grigor's daughter. She stepped forward to stand on Dulnain's right, armed with the sword she'd taken from the warrior she'd brained with the wooden stool. Firelight caught the metal so it shone as if made from the stars themselves.

"You think you can stand against us?" Tolsta demanded as his warriors spread out to form a loose fighting line. They were grim men, spattered with the blood of innocents and still eager to shed more.

"We can, and we will," Grigor said. He moved to stand on Dulnain's left. He'd brought his longbow with him from the inn and had already notched an arrow, though he hadn't yet drawn the string and taken aim. Dulnain knew why; Tolsta did not.

Tolsta laughed. "Five proven warriors against a boy, an old man and a girl," he said. "Hardly fair odds."

"You've seen how this one fights," Grigor said, nodding toward Dulnain. "The ghosts of three of your best warriors go to the King's barrow, cursing the day they met Dulnain of the Caledon. The fourth was slain by my daughter Gela, who carries his sword. As for me, I fought alongside King Dughal at the Blood Moor and I slew thirty Nordlanders before I ran out of arrows. Which of you wants to die first?"

"Let us talk no more, Father," his daughter said. Her voice was cold as ice, but the fire in her eyes touched Dulnain's soul. "They have murdered and sullied our folk, and must now pay the price."

The effect of their words upon the four warriors quickly became apparent. The men exchanged wary looks, and glanced at the wounded Tolsta, then at the bodies of their dead comrades lying about them. Dulnain was unwounded and ready to fight, as was Grigor's daughter—Gela, her father had named her. Dulnain regretted comparing her to the cattle in the byre. She wasn't the prettiest he'd ever seen, but she was handsome in her own way, standing there with her hair streaming in the wind, ready to die protecting her village.

"It takes more than words to frighten warriors, old man," Tolsta said, trying to put on a bold mask but making no move against them.

"Warriors? The lad called you coward to your face but still you would not fight him, man against man." Grigor spat loudly, giving his opinion of Tolsta. "You are not Nordlanders. You are outlaws pretending to be Nordlanders, scum who have forgotten your oath of service to your own King."

"Talk not to me of oaths," Tolsta snarled. "Dughal broke his oath to me before I broke mine to him. The gods bear witness to this."

Tolsta's words puzzled Dulnain, but he was wise to Tolsta's trick of attacking in the middle of a sentence. As if reading his mind, a warrior leapt just as Tolsta finished speaking, intending to slay Grigor. Dulnain met his attack, turning the man's longsword with his own and gutting him with the shortsword. The warrior screamed and fell. His death prompted the others to charge. A scarred warrior hurled himself at Dulnain. Instead of trying to stab him, as Dulnain expected, he cunningly swept Dulnain's swords aside. The warrior's head snapped forward and his studded iron helm struck Dulnain full in the face.

Dulnain reeled, off-balance and blinded, his nose surely broken. The warrior slammed into him, sending him sprawling in the dirt. Grigor cried out and, a moment later, Gela screamed. Dulnain's crimson pain was nothing against the knowledge he'd failed them. His vision cleared just in time for him to see the warrior standing over him, framed against a background of stars, his teeth bared and his longsword ready to cleave Dulnain in half.

A biting chill touched Dulnain. The warrior looked up, his surprise turning to terror in the space of a heartbeat. And then he died as a glowing sword swept completely through his body. He toppled backward and crashed to the ground like a felled tree.

Dulnain heaved himself up onto his knees and blinked until his vision cleared. Grigor stood a short distance away, clutching his shoulder, his face contorted in pain. Tolsta lay on the ground before him, a black-feathered shaft sticking out of his stomach. Grigor had launched his arrow as Tolsta bore down upon him. At that range the archer couldn't have missed, even with a partial pull of the bowstring. The deed had caused Grigor great suffering but he was still alive, while Tolsta was dying. And so were Tolsta's men. The ghosts were murdering them. The shades of the warriors Dulnain and Gela had killed had returned to slay those who still lived.

Gela moved to stand beside him. Blood covered one side of her face, streaming from a gash on her forehead. They watched in frightened silence as the ghosts drew back from those they'd killed. It was not long before the spirits of the newly slain rose from their bodies. Dulnain could hardly bear to look at them; their wounds were hideous. They joined their former comrades and together they stood waiting. For what?

"I remember you now," Grigor said, and Dulnain and Gela looked at him. The innkeeper was speaking to Tolsta. "You are the traitor, Tolsta the Raven, who was banished by King Dughal."

Dulnain also remembered. The story of Tolsta the Raven's treachery had reached even the far corners of the Caledon Mountains. Tolsta had conspired to murder his friend Dughal, but had himself been betrayed and forced to flee into exile.

Tolsta chuckled, then winced in pain, clutching the arrow in his belly. "Aye, Innkeeper, you saw me the night Dughal's ship was wrecked," he said, hissing the words. "We doused your signal fires, and lit other fires further up the coast. His ship broke its back upon the rocks. The fishes feasted upon his body. I die happy, knowing that Dughal's death was my doing. When I reach Valhalla, I'll seek out his rotted shade and laugh at him."

Grigor slowly shook his head. Dulnain thought at first that he was saddened by Tolsta's news, but then the innkeeper pointed past the gathered ghosts, at the flat-topped hill that lay between the village and the ocean.

"Dughal's body was pulled from the sea, unspoiled and whole," Grigor said. "We built yonder barrow so that our High King might have a fitting grave—and to remind ourselves of our part in his doom. We thought we'd failed to keep the beacon fires lit, thus causing his death. But now we know the truth of it."

Dulnain stared at the ghosts and slowly began to understand. They weren't here to exact vengeance upon Dulnain for slaying them. They were waiting for Tolsta the Raven to die.

"Our High King still protects his folk as best he can," Grigor said softly. "He has taken your dead into his service. You shall join him in his chambers beneath the barrow instead of journeying to Valhalla. It is fitting."

"No," Tolsta groaned. His head fell back and his eyes closed. His breath came in short gasps. "Not that. I am a warrior. I have earned my place in Wotan's Feasting Hall."

"You are a traitor and a coward," Grigor told him. "And worse, a murderer of your own people, driven by hatred and animal blood lust. You will serve the High King you betrayed, which is more honor than you deserve."

Grigor turned and walked back toward his inn. Dulnain wanted to remain and see what happened next, but Gela pulled him around and followed her father. Dulnain was too dizzy and too weak to resist. She was strong and bore his weight upon her shoulder with ease. Dulnain felt sure his father would approve of his bringing such a woman home. It was time Dulnain built his own house and reared his own cattle and had a wife to cook his meals and raise his many sons.

A terrible scream pierced the night. Dulnain stopped and looked back. The ghost warriors were dragging a kicking, struggling shade toward the High King's barrow. Tolsta the Raven did not go willingly.

§

Five villagers had been killed, three men and two women. Others were injured but they bore their wounds without complaint, as Dulnain's folk would have done. The villagers buried their dead with due ceremony, while the bodies of their attackers were cast into a crab-filled pit and forgotten.

The next day, traders began arriving in the village, which was host to this month's market. Grigor, his arm in a sling, introduced Dulnain to his cousin, who liked the look of Dulnain's strong, mountain-bred beasts with their shaggy coats and long horns. Dulnain received fair coin and was able to purchase the supplies his family needed for the winter. Padraig would help him convey the supplies home on Grigor's pony-cart. Grigor refused to accept payment for the use of the cart. His longbow again hung above the fireplace, with Tolsta's sword beneath. He would have a tale to tell any customer who asked why.

Before he left the village, Dulnain searched for Gela. He found her in the inn's kitchen, preparing food for the traders who now occupied the upstairs rooms. She saw him standing at the door, and took off her apron and came outside to speak with him. Her mother and her younger sister looked on curiously.

"I am Dulnain of the Caledon," he said, beginning the formal ritual. "I intend to ask your father for your hand. Know that my father will give us one-quarter of his herd and good grazing land as wedding gifts. I will build up a herd of my own and be a rich man."

"I have often wondered what it is like up in the mountains," Gela said. "But, tell me this, Dulnain of the Caledon. If my father agrees to your proposal—which I think he might, since he is fed up with three women nagging him all his waking hours—what do I gain?"

Dulnain was taken aback, but tried not to show it. "Aside from a handsome husband, a good house and a sizeable herd of cattle, you mean?" he said, pleased with the wit of his reply.

"Is the house built yet?" she said.

"No," he admitted.

She pursed her lips. "Even if you started building now, you'd be unlikely to finish it and gather enough supplies before the winter set in. I'm curious about the mountains, but I've no wish to die up there, frozen like a lump of ice. And cattle are hardly a reliable source of income. There are good seasons and bad."

He sighed. He hadn't realized she had this side to her. "I cannot deny any of what you say," he said. "But I will build a house and I will breed a herd."

"I believe you, Dulnain of the Caledon. When your house is built, come back and fetch me, if you're still interested. I'll be here next Spring, same as usual. But perhaps some pretty Caledon filly will catch your eye between now and then? Someone who doesn't look like a cow's backside?" The corners of her lips curled upward. "Oh aye, I know my own faults. You needn't think I don't. We fought Tolsta the Raven and you're smitten with me because of that. But will you be just as smitten when the Winter snows melt next year?"

"Would you wish me to be?"

She looked at him thoughtfully, her head cocked to one side, appraising him as if he were some bull in the market place. He felt himself blushing and wished his nose wasn't broken and his face wasn't bruised, so she could see him at his best.

"I think so, aye," she said. "You have rocks in your head, but that's because you're still young and daft. I'll knock some sense into you, Caledon, if you dare come calling again."

With this she turned and went back into the kitchen, closing the door behind her with her foot.

Dulnain smiled, then lifted his longsword, his war trophy, and rested it upon his shoulder. He'd show it to his father when he got home, and tell him the tale of Tolsta the Raven, and the High King beneath the barrow.

He went off to find Padraig and the pony cart, whistling as he walked, and looking forward to the Spring thaw.

The End

Original anthology cover